


Lute

by Fallen_King



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier was bullied at oxenfurt, M/M, Soft Geralt, Soft Jaskier, anxiety attack, he breaks his lute, jaskier is injured
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallen_King/pseuds/Fallen_King
Summary: Jaskier is injured during a fight-I'm not good at summaries, but it's cute y'all.Also I really didn't know what to name it, so I went with my working title of Lute.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 10
Kudos: 241





	Lute

**Author's Note:**

> Jaskier does have multiple anxiety attacks during the story, and is injured. I don't go into too much detail on either though.

He is wincing and he is frowning, and he is bringing down his lute with such a force that he has never used before. He can hear the twang of snapping strings, and he can hear the wood crying out, splintering loudly as it collides with the creature's skull. The beastly animal crumples from the impact, releasing an ear splitting screech as it does so. As it falls against the upturned mud, Jaskier swings his beloved, handcrafted, perfectly tuned lute against it over and over and over and over an- the mound of bloodied fur has ceased to move.  
Jaskier is panting, he is trembling, and inside he is mourning. His wide eyes flicker to Geralt, who remains on the slick ground with an almost startled expression. The Witcher nudges the carcass at his feet, confirming its death- though Jaskier appears to be in a shape worse than the bludgeoned beast. His face is an ashy comparison to the beaten yellow of his torn doublet. He sways with the surrounding trees, the sad remains of his instrument hanging limply in his weak grasp. He swallows thickly, lips parting despite the lack of words that would normally tumble forth. With a jerked movement he lifts his head to the barely visible sky, before his knees buckle and he sinks to the moss patch behind. He is vaguely aware of Geralt pulling his back from the ground. The world is spinning and he cannot seem to catch his breath. He closes his eyes, head pounding with Geralt’s concern.

“I-I’m fine,” he stutters out, face scrunched tightly as his eyes squeeze. It feels as if he is back at Oxenfurt, struggling against an affliction with little cause and even less alleviating treatment. His senses feel hazy, consciousness lingering just outside his static body. Each measured inhale clogs his throat, every controlled exhale doing nothing to empty his aching lungs. The tips of his fingers dig into the soil at his sides, but he cannot seem to root himself in its damp coldness. The arm encompassing his shoulders radiates heat with such ferocity that he feels as if he may burn. But he leans into the sear. He cracks his eyes, but everything is a shaking blur. With hesitance he reaches out, hands clutching the fingers on Geralt’s free hand. He traces the callouses with firm concentration, finding the real in his overwhelming state.  
Geralt does not move- nor does the subtle concern leave his face. The sun is beginning to set, and the woods are even more of a danger in the dark. He watches the sky with a calm demeanor as Jaskier’s shaking lightens to a slight tremble. When his complexion appears not quite so nauseous, Geralt releases a quiet breath.

“Are you able to move?” He asks, eyes flicking through the slowly fogging underbrush. Jaskier nods hesitantly, allowing Geralt to pull him to his feet. With the haze in his brain clearing, the pain throbbing through his thigh and across his shoulder sing in his nerves. His fingers brush his leg and come back slick with red. He doesn’t remember going to Roach, but finds himself slumped in her saddle as Geralt guides them back to town. He curls his fingers in her mane, glancing to Geralt as his memory goes out once again.  
Hushed chatter causes his eyes to flutter. They are moving through a crowded tavern, heading to the staircase, but he feels as if the dread is seeping back. It is at the top of the stairs that he inhales deeply, then finds his lungs expelling the air almost immediately. Geralt is taking him down the hall, to the safety of their room, but Jaskier cannot get his breathing under control. He is sitting on the bed, fingers digging into the warm sheets, and he is hyperventilating. Geralt stands in front of him. He is dirty and he is bloody, but he is there- and he is firmly pressing a cloth to Jaskier’s leg. His other hand reaches up to Jaskier’s face, cupping his cheek as he meets his panicked blue eyes.

“Breathe,” he rasps, inhaling deeply and holding it for a moment. Jaskier tilts his head, leaning into the touch, and tries to match his breathing to Geralt’s. He loosens his grip on the bed, jerkily placing it atop Geralt’s on his thigh.

“You are safe now.” It is the softest Jaskier has ever heard his Witchers voice. Though he concentrates as best he can, it takes half an hour before his breathing has returned to normal.

Geralt’s hand still lingers on his skin as he speaks, “your leg.”

Jaskier glances down, taking note of the blood that paints Geralt’s fingertips. He gives a nod in response, undoing his trousers with skilled speed. As Geralt moves to grab their first aid bag, Jaskier pries off his pants, blanching at the deep cut trailing down his right thigh. He closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Geralt,” he calls out, panic twinging it’s way into his voice, “Geralt- I’m getting flashbacks to that damned Djinn.”

“You’ll be fine,” Geralt answers, placing the supplies onto the bed and kneeling, “but this will sting.”

Every muscle in Jaskier’s body tenses as a cool liquid is poured over his wound. Sting feels like an understatement.

“You’re hair’s a mess,” he grumbles through clenched teeth. He reaches up and picks out a bit of moss. Geralt ignores Jaskier’s methods of self-distraction; he cleans the wound and threads his needle. Jaskier, fingers working through a knot in the other's hair, freezes.

“No no no no, there is no way.” His only prevention from scrambling back is the strong hand holding his leg.

“You don’t have a choice,” Geralt murmurs, looking up at him. Jaskier swallows thickly, setting his jaw and nodding. He stares at the low burning candle on the nightstand, absentmindedly returning to his work on Geralt’s hair. The Witcher places one hand above the cut, piercing Jaskier’s skin with the needle. Jaskier inhales sharply, instinctively balling his hands into fists. At the sudden tugging of his hair, Geralt pauses and looks up to Jaskier, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows raised. Jaskier freezes, holding eye contact before slowly releasing the others hair.

“Not the right time for that?” He questions, earning a huff and eye roll, “save it for later then.”

Geralt returns his gaze with disbelief, warning, “Jaskier.”

“I know underneath that mask of disapproval, you liked that.” Geralt responds with a grumbly huff, returning his attention to mending. A thoughtful silence fills the room as he works. Jaskier’s mind lingers on his destroyed lute- not only his favorite one, but a parting gift from home long ago. He feels the tendrils of melancholy snaking his limbs. He feels a great deal of loss for his irreplaceable sentiment, and it must show, for upon finishing the stitches Geralt takes a seat on the bed beside him. He stares at the ground with perplexion pulling at his brows. His mouth opens, then closes without a word. 

“Jaskier,” he begins slowly, “back, uhm... back in the woods.” He glances to the bard beside him, but Jaskier has taken to investigating his own fingernails.

“Yes.”

“Hm,” Geralt cannot seem to find his words, frustration tensing his body.

“As I am sure you are very well aware, I tend to oversee, rather than participate, in your hunts.” Jaskier begins tentatively, taking the initiative that Geralt lacks.

“More like you get yourself into trouble and come running back to me.”

“I’ll take that.” Jaskier shifts his body to face Geralt, one leg dangling from the bed. “I am not a fighter, Geralt- running away was always my safest bet. Being a part of whatever altercation, trying to fight back, has never yielded good results for me. But the situation we were in today- - Geralt the beast was going to kill you. I-I couldn’t run from that…” Jaskier’s voice falls, “I stepped out of my safety and destroyed my favorite lute… Don’t get me wrong, so long as there is somewhere for me to run, I will always take cowardice over contest... but, well- just not when it comes to you.”

He waits for something, anything, but the small smile that graces Geralt’s face near stops his heart. 

“So you mean that-“

“Geralt I would fight for you-“

“you’ll destroy your instruments, and stop singing.”

“and that is not to be taken light- absolutely not!”

They stare at one another in playful challenge, the weight of his words hanging heavily. It is Jaskier who breaks first.

“Gods, fuck,” he whispers, then reaches out towards Geralt’s still tangled hair, “you need to let me brush this.” 

Geralt resigns himself to a “hm,” of permission. But when Jaskier makes to grab a brush, he places a hand on his wounded leg. Without a word he stands, retrieving a brush from the others bag. Stiffly, Jaskier crawls to the center of the bed, creasing the burlap colored sheets. He spreads his legs out in front of him, tapping the mattress. There is hesitation in Geralt’s compliance. Though he settles in between Jaskier’s legs, he is tense. Plucking the brush from his hand, Jaskier begins his work at the ends of his Witcher’s hair. He hums as he works, gentle with each knot and snarl, picking out plant matter as he comes across it. With time Geralt begins to relax, letting his back slump and his shoulders dip. He stretches his legs out, knees pressed against Jaskier’s bare legs.  
The bedside candle is a puddle of melted wax, cooling in the breeze that flutters through the parted curtains on the far wall. A full moon hazes across the floorboards, illuminating the white of Geralt’s now braided hair. 

“Geralt, may I ask for something personal?” Jaskier asks, picking at the bristles of the brush.

“Hm?”

“May I indulge in affection through very pronounced physical contact?” Geralt twists to stare at Jaskier over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. The other holds his gaze, unwavering to his own odd request. 

“Jaskier?” There is only curious questioning in Geralt’s voice.

“I am feeling very soft right now,” Jaskier states, “and would like to express it.”

“Alright,” Geralt agrees, shaking his head slightly. Placing the brush down, Jaskier wraps his arms around Geralt’s chest. Careful of his wound, his legs encompass Geralt’s waist, his ankles hooking. With a long exhale, he rests the side of his face against the others back. Geralt places his hand on Jaskier’s knee, running his thumb over his skin.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He murmurs as Jaskier presses a kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“I will be.” Comes the oh so quiet response. Letting out a decisive sigh, Geralt loosens Jaskier’s limbs and turns to face him. Without a word he pulls his Bard onto him, wrapping his arms around him. Jaskier nuzzles into Geralt’s neck, closing his eyes. 

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

His body is heavy with sleep, waves of comfort lulling his brain. The shift in his breathing tells Geralt that Jaskier has fallen asleep. The Witcher gently removes his Bard, laying him against the pillows and pulling the sheet overtop of them. His fingers ghost Jaskier’s face. In his sleep, he seeks out Geralt’s warmth- pressing himself into Geralt’s chest and burrowing against his collarbones. Geralt relinquishes a sigh, closing his eyes to the tranquil night.


End file.
